


Pull the strings

by BearlyWriting



Series: Jason Rare Pair Challenge [8]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Titans (TV 2018)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood and Injury, Bondage, Bottom Jason Todd, Double Penetration, Double Penetration in One Hole, Forced Orgasm, Gun play, Kidnapping, M/M, Mutual Non-Con, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Painful Sex, Sensory Deprivation, Top Dick Grayson, Top Slade Wilson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:15:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28363020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BearlyWriting/pseuds/BearlyWriting
Summary: ““I don’t think you’re a martyr, Grayson. I care very little for your self-sacrificing act. I want you to see him hurt. I want you to know that you put him here. This is on you and your little puppeteering act.”Dick swallows hard. That hurts. It hurts because he knows it’s partially true - that itisDick’s fault that this is happening to Jason. Because he isn’t good enough, as a mentor, as a leader, because he allowed his teammates to get hurt, because he asked them all to put themselves in the line of fire again and again. And now Deathstroke is punishing him for exactly that. And he’s using Jason to do it.”Slade wants Dick to hurt for what he did. And he knows exactly how to do that.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Jason Todd/Slade Wilson, Jason Todd/Slade Wilson
Series: Jason Rare Pair Challenge [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1738768
Comments: 10
Kudos: 83
Collections: Batfam Kinkmas Exchange 2020, Jason Todd Rare Pair Challenge





	Pull the strings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sarriathmg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarriathmg/gifts).



> A treat for Sarri’s lovely kinkmas prompt! I hope you enjoy :)

Dick’s heart is pounding. He can feel it battering against his ribs, his pulse throbbing beneath his jaw. This is stupid. Even he can admit that. Running off with no backup, lying to his team, _offering_ himself to the heavily armed psychopath, well, it can only end one way. But Dick’s accepted that. He knows he’s going to be the collateral damage of this particular fight and he’s okay with that. He has to be. This is his fault, after all. It’s him that Deathstroke really wants, and Dick isn’t going to let anyone get hurt because of him.

He isn’t going to let Jason get hurt.

So Dick doesn’t hesitate to leave the others behind. To walk into that warehouse with his empty hands up and his bullet-proof vest removed like a lamb to the slaughter.

Maybe he should have done, though. Because when he rounds the corner, half-way through his _take me instead_ speech, the sight that greets him makes him wish he had a gun. 

Not that he expects it would be much use if he had, because he doubts having a gun would have stopped him from freezing like a startled rabbit, every plan and thought and reflex blown straight out of his head by the horror of the scene that greets him. And, even if he hadn’t frozen, Deathstroke is fully kitted out in heavy combat armour that Dick doubts any normal gun could pierce.

Well, most of him is. Dick can’t exactly see particularly well past the dark shape of Jason’s head, but he doubts the cock shoved down the kid’s throat is covered in anything but spit.

God. _God_. Just thinking that sentence is enough to turn his stomach inside out. Actually seeing it: seeing Deathstroke sprawled casually in a chair, his legs spread wide, Jason kneeling between them with an armoured hand tangled in his hair, feels like a punch to the gut.

Anger surges through him like a tidal wave. Distantly, he hears himself make a strangled, choking sound. Then his whole body jerks as he lunges for Deathstroke, weapon-less and armour-less but suddenly desperate to get that monster away from Jason. To stop him _raping_ Dick’s teammate, his...his brother.

Deathstroke moves too, one hand flying up to point a heavy black gun right at Dick’s face. Dick dodges, barely even thinking, not caring that he has no idea what he’ll do if he actually gets his hands on Deathstroke, just knowing that he needs to _get him away_ from Jason.

The gun goes off and Dick has just enough time to throw himself to the side before he’s riddled with bullets. He lands hard, rolls, his arms coming up instinctively to cover his head. But Deathstroke doesn’t keep shooting at him, instead, he turns the gun on Jason, who he’s still holding firm against his crotch, pressing the gun hard against his forehead.

Dick freezes. The threat to his own life, he can handle. He’d come here knowing that this might be the end, after all. But the last thing he wants to do is get Jason hurt. Or, more hurt than he already is.

“You’re not a martyr,” Deathstroke growls, cocking his head to regard Dick coolly. With the mask in the way, Dick can’t read his expression. “You’re a conman, preying on those weak enough to follow you. The problem with conmen, is they never know when to stop. And someone else always pays.”

“Stop,” Dick snaps, because it’s the only thing he can think to say. Beneath Deathstroke’s hand, Jason is making awful, soft gagging noises, his neck straining as he tries to pull away. “I’m here, you can have me. You don’t need to do this to him.”

Deathstroke tilts his head down to look at Jason, fists the hand in his hair tight and drags him backwards, keeping the gun pressed against him the entire time. Dick can hear the ragged breath Jason gasps as Deathstroke’s cock slides out of his throat. From this angle, he can see it, too: the red flesh of Deathstroke’s hard cock, the shine of Jason’s spit, the way his lips stretch around Deathstroke, wide and painful-looking. When just the tip is left, Deathstroke pauses. Jason’s head twitches in his grip. Noise-cancelling headphones cover his ears and a strip of dirty fabric is tied across his eyes. Dick has no idea if he knows anyone but Deathstroke is here.

“But why should I?” Deathstroke rumbles. He punctuates that by forcing Jason’s head back down roughly, his hips twitching as he buries himself deep in Jason’s throat. Jason makes another ugly retching sound, followed by a high, pained whine and his arms flex where they’re cuffed behind him. Dick flinches. He tastes acid.

This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong. Jason’s just a kid. A stupid, cocky, asshole of a kid sometimes, yeah, but a kid all the same. And all Dick can seem to do is stand there and watch as Slade rapes that very same kid right in front of him.

“Please,” he manages, wishing he hadn’t done this alone. Wishing the team would suddenly appear out of nowhere and stop this. “Don’t do this. You don’t need to hurt him. I’m here.”

Deathstroke’s arm flexes as he works Jason over his cock, uncaring that Dick is there. That he’s begging. Uncaring that Jason is making little hurt sounds with every thrust.

“I told you,” Slade says, voice perfectly even, as if he doesn’t have his cock rammed down an unwilling teenage boy’s throat. “I don’t think you’re a martyr, Grayson. I care very little for your self-sacrificing act. I want you to see him hurt. I want you to know that you put him here. This is on you and your little puppeteering act.”

Dick swallows hard. That hurts. It hurts because he knows it’s partially true - that it _is_ Dick’s fault that this is happening to Jason. Because he isn’t good enough, as a mentor, as a leader, because he allowed his teammates to get hurt, because he asked them all to put themselves in the line of fire again and again. And now Deathstroke is punishing him for exactly that. And he’s using Jason to do it.

Abruptly, Deathstroke stands. He doesn’t let go of Jason’s head and the kid chokes at the sudden change in position. Deathstroke just laughs, before finally pushing him back. Jason falls away the moment Slade lets him, coughing and gagging and heaving in huge lungfuls of air. Without Jason impaled on it, Deathstroke’s cock stands tall and proud against his stomach. Dick wants to look away from it, but can’t. How had that even fit inside Jason? 

The thought makes Dick’s stomach turn.

Deathstroke steps forward, standing over Jason and Dick wants to be relieved that at least he isn’t actively raping the kid any more, but the gun is still pointed straight at Jason and Dick isn’t naive enough to think this is over. Not if Deathstroke genuinely wants to hurt him with this.

“What’s wrong?” Slade asks with cool amusement. Dick scowls. As if there’s anything that’s _right_ about this. “I wouldn’t think that you would worry about using other people’s bodies. You of all people can hardly complain.”

What the fuck does that mean? Dick has never touched anyone without their express permission. Never. He’d rather die. Unless this is some pointed jab about Jericho. About what had happened - the way Dick had allowed him to die. Used him, he supposes. Let him put his body in the line of fire. That’s exactly what this is about, after all, isn’t it? This is all because of Dick - because of the decisions he’d made.

“Not like this,” Dick manages. “This is...this is _sick_.”

“This is what you’ve wrought,” Slade says. 

He kicks Jason where he’s still curled up on the floor, using one heavy boot to flip him onto his stomach. Jason whimpers. Then Slade drops to his knees behind him, pressing the gun into the back of Jason’s curly head, gripping one thin hip with his free hand. Jason jerks, trying to pull away.

“Get the fuck off of me,” Jason yells, voice hoarse, the desperate words rough and cracked by things Dick doesn’t even want to think about. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

Dick desperately wants to reassure him. Wants to get Slade the fuck away from him. Wants to make sure Slade never has the chance to touch him ever again. But Dick has made himself helpless here. He’d put himself on the backfoot before he’d even stepped into the warehouse. He could fight Slade, but it would be pointless. Deathstroke is in full armour, holding a weapon that could obliterate Jason’s skull with one twitch of his finger and Dick knows he would do it. If Dick so much as breathes wrong, he has no doubt that Slade will kill Jason.

Slade ignores him, grabbing at Jason’s waist and yanking his trousers down in one jerky movement. Dick’s heart jumps in his chest. His throat feels almost too swollen to breathe. Deathstroke is really going to do this. He’s going to rape Jason right here on the floor, right in front of Dick.

Jason yells again, wordlessly, kicking out at Deathstroke in desperation. Slade growls and throws himself forward, crushing Jason beneath him, slamming the barrel of the gun into Jason’s cheek. With his free hand, he tugs the earphones off of one ear, pressing his mouth against Jason to snarl at him.

“Do that again and I’ll blow your fucking head off, kid.”

Jason snarls but falls still. The pressure of the gun is leaching all of the colour out of his cheek. Dick can’t do this. He can’t stand here and watch this.

“Jas-” he starts but Slade slams the earphone back into place and jerks his head up to glare at Dick where he’s still crouching uselessly on the floor.

“Don’t get cocky,” Slade snaps. His hips are pressed to Jason’s, bare skin against skin. Dick wants to hit him so badly his fingers itch. “This is your punishment. Come here.”

Dick’s chest tightens. He gets to his knees and shuffles closer because he doesn’t want to know what Deathstroke will do if he doesn’t. He stops when he’s close enough to touch and has to clench his fingers hard into fists to avoid doing just that.

“You use people, Grayson. Now you’re going to use him.”

Dick goes cold. That can’t mean what he thinks it means. It can’t. He shakes his head, swallowing hard. His whole body is trembling.

“What? I don’t -”

“You will,” Slade snarls. “You’ll fuck him or you’ll watch him die. It’s your choice.”

No. No-no-no. _No_. Dick can’t do this. This is impossible. The thought of touching anyone without their permission is like a knife in his chest. The thought of touching _Jason_ like this is more like a knife in his gut - a rusty, serrated blade, tearing him apart from the inside out. Dick can’t do this. Physically. There’s no way he’ll be able to get it up, even if he wanted to.

“No.” And his voice barely sounds human. “No. I won’t. I won’t rape him.”

Slade shrugs. “Then I suppose you should say goodbye.”

“No,” Dick snaps. Because the only thing he can’t do more than touch Jason is watch him die, knowing he could have prevented it. “No.” And it kills him, but... “I - I’ll do it. Please don’t hurt him.”

If Slade smiles, Dick can’t tell through the mask. But he does sit back, not shifting the gun, but dropping his free hand to the rigid flesh of his cock. “Good,” he growls. “Get on with it then. Kid’s got a mouth on him.”

Dick feels lightheaded. Jason is lying silent between them, trembling, his chest heaving with every frantic breath. Dick is trembling almost as hard. He can’t look at the kid. He can’t do this. But he has to.

Dick isn’t sure if he’s ever felt so awful in his life. The whole world seems to throb along with the thrum of his pulse. The blood is pounding so hard in his head that his ears are ringing. Everything feels dull and distant.

With trembling hands, Dick tugs open the fly of his jeans and fishes out his limp cock. It feels wrong to be touching it, here, with Jason lying on the floor beneath him. He’s touched himself a hundred times before, but now his own flesh feels foreign. His cock has been turned into something evil - a weapon to be used against an innocent kid.

He can feel the weight of Deathstroke’s gaze on him and has to shut his eyes. Getting hard feels impossible. He’s never felt less aroused in his life.

There’s the sound of Slade shifting and the wet sound of flesh on flesh and Dick’s eyes open instinctively. Deathstroke is leaning close, the hand that had been fisting his cock shoved into Jason’s mouth. It’s obvious from the tension on the kid’s face that the only thing keeping him from biting is the gun pressed to his skin.

The thought makes Dick feel ill. Or, more ill than he already feels. He watches in horror as Deathstroke retreats again, shifts his weight, then spears two damp fingers into Jason without any preamble. The kid makes an awful, wounded noise that’s almost a scream and his whole body jerks against the concrete.

“Stop,” he begs, in a breathless little voice. “Get off of me. _Please_.”

Slade just grunts, pumping his fingers roughly in and out while Jason squirms. The kid sobs when he finally removes them and Dick should feel relief at that but Deathstroke is already gripping his hip and dragging him back. Dick closes his eyes but that doesn’t block out the sound of Jason’s scream or Deathstroke’s grunt of pleasure. Jesus, this is happening. As if watching Deathstroke rape his mouth hadn’t been bad enough.

“No,” Jason wails. “Stop, please! It hurts.”

Dick might actually be sick.

“Come on,” Slade growls. 

Dick opens his eyes, then immediately regrets it. The scene in front of him will be burned into his brain for the rest of his life - Deathstroke huge and intimidating, crushing Jason underneath him, hips jackhammering against the kid’s pale ass, fingers digging bruises into his skin. What he can see of Jason’s face is twisted in fear and agony.

“Are you gonna just sit there all day? Or are you gonna shut him up?”

Dick swallows against a surge of bile and bitter self-hatred. Deathstroke reaches out and fists his free hand in Jason’s curls, yanking his head up so that Dick has a perfect view of the agony on his face and the damp patches on the blindfold where his tears have soaked into the fabric.

“Get closer,” Slade orders.

Dick swallows again, painfully, and shuffles forward until Jason’s head is hovering over his lap. He can feel each shuddering breath against the skin of his hand and - worse - his cock. It makes him want to shrink into himself. Makes him wish he couldn’t feel anything.

Slade huffs and another rough thrust knocks Jason’s head against Dick’s stomach. The kid whines.

“Am I going to have to tell you what to do the whole time?” Slade asks. Then, when Dick doesn’t move: “Put your cock in his mouth.”

The last thing Dick wants is to put his cock anywhere near Jason. In fact, he highly doubts he’ll be putting his cock near _anyone_ for the foreseeable future. At least, not willingly. For a second, he thinks about Kori - about the night they had spent together - and immediately regrets it. Those memories don’t deserve to be tainted.

He doesn’t want to do this, but the gun is an ever-present threat and Dick has no more chance of fighting Deathstroke off now than he ever has. So, with trembling, sweat-slick fingers, Dick guides his limp cock to Jason’s lips.

Immediately, Jason clamps his mouth shut. And Dick would be glad of that - would be pleased by Jason’s resistance - except, he knows Deathstroke is going to punish him for it and the thought makes his queasy stomach turn.

Slade forces Jason’s head down, pressing his tightly-sealed lips into Dick. Then he jerks one of the headphones away from Jason’s ear.

“Make it good for Grayson, kid, or I’ll shove this gun where the sun don’t shine.”

“Fuck you,” Jason snarls and Dick shudders at the odd sensation of Jason’s lips moving against him. At the threat of his teeth.

Slade doesn’t reply. Instead, he pulls back, bringing the gun with him, running it down the length of Jason’s spine. Jason is a tense, angry line between them. When Slade pulls his hips away, Dick gets a brief look at his cock. When he presses the gun between Jason’s cheeks, the kid makes a terrible sound of fear.

“Wait,” he gasps, “wait. Don’t. Dick _please_. Don’t do this. _Help me_.”

Dick feels as though he’s swallowed his tongue. As though the words are blows, shattering his ribs, carving out his chest. Does Jason...does he think Dick is doing this willingly? Does he think that Dick wouldn’t be doing everything in his power to help him if he could?

Is he? 

It’s Dick’s fault that they’re here, after all. It’s Dick who’s following the commands of his worst enemy because he’d foolishly thought he could manipulate him. Because he’d thought he’d understood Slade and he hadn’t. He’d misjudged the situation so badly and now it’s Jason who’s paying for it. It’s Jason who’s being assaulted so brutally.

And whether he wants to or not, Dick is about to rape him. He can’t fault Jason for being scared. He can’t imagine Jason will feel anything but hatred towards him after this.

Slade’s arm flexes. Jason screams again as the gun is worked into him, squirming in Dick’s lap. His mouth is hot and wet against Dick’s cock. Tears streak down his flushed cheeks, too many to all be absorbed by the cloth around his eyes.

“Slade,” Dick tries, a choked plea. “He’ll do it, please, take the gun out.”

Deathstroke ignores him. Jason makes a sound like a wounded animal.

“Please,” he gasps. 

Then, desperately, Jason presses his head into Dick’s lap. Dick jerks at the sensation of a hot, wet tongue laving clumsily over his cock and the fingers still wrapped around himself. Has to bite back a startled little noise when Jason takes the head of his cock between chapped lips. The moment Dick lets go of himself, Jason takes advantage, swallowing the still-limp length in one desperate movement.

Dick groans. It barely even feels good - too mixed up with the nauseous horror in his gut. With the knowledge that the mouth on him is _Jason’s_ , a kid’s, his teammate, his kind-of-brother. But the sound escapes anyway. Immediately, he hates himself for it.

But Slade grunts and yanks the gun out of Jason and Dick is so dizzy with relief that the weapon is out of him, even if Slade immediately replaces it with his cock.

Jason makes another noise at that, muffled by Dick’s cock in his mouth and the vibration feels good even if Dick kind of wants to vomit. His whole body feels hot and tense, at war with itself. Because this is someone Dick is supposed to protect, supposed to take care of, and, instead, he’s hurting him in one of the worst possible ways. And it’s sick and wrong and awful. But he can’t deny the way it feels to have a warm, wet mouth on him. He can’t deny that the way Jason works his tongue against him feels _good_ even as Dick fights against it.

It takes both an agonisingly long, and somehow shamefully short, amount of time to work Dick to hardness. The whole time, Slade keeps raping Jason, hips working methodically against him, and Jason keeps crying, keeps whimpering. Every terrible little noise has bile surging up the back of Dick’s throat and his cock fighting to go soft.

When he finally gets fully hard, Slade pauses. “Fuck his throat,” he growls. “You can’t make the kid do all the work.”

Dick’s heart is pounding so hard his vision is blurry. Or maybe that’s just the start of tears, prickling hot behind his eyes. The thought of being any more of an active participant than this - having to do more than just sit there and get his cock sucked - almost makes them spill, but Dick can’t allow that. He won’t cry in front of Slade. He won’t cry when it’s Jason that’s being hurt - that’s being raped.

The fingers that curl into Jason’s hair feel like they belong to someone else. The headphones are still askew. Dick has the sudden urge to push them back into place. He doesn’t want Jason to hear Slade’s awful words or - worse - any inadvertent sounds of pleasure Dick might make. He doesn’t, if only because he has no idea whether Slade had left them like that on purpose.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, because at least he can take this one small advantage of the situation. Not that he deserves Jason’s forgiveness. “God, I’m so sorry Jason.”

Jason doesn’t respond to that - he can’t, not with Dick’s cock in his mouth - but his shoulders tense. When Dick shifts his grip to hold Jason’s head steady and thrust tentatively into his mouth, he lets out a sound that’s almost a sob.

Dick closes his eyes and tries not to think about it. He doesn’t want to see the way his cock disappears into Jason’s mouth. Doesn’t want to feel the wet heat of his tongue or way his lips stretch around him. Dick’s as gentle as he can be, trying to keep his thrusts shallow, but he can feel the weight of Slade’s gaze on him.

And: “I said his throat, Grayson.”

Dick swallows. Thrusts. Swallows again at the way Jason’s throat clasps around him, convulsing around the intrusion of his cock. The kid gags and Dick feels his own throat spasm with an answering retch. He feels so dizzy that he’s genuinely worried he might pass out - and what the fuck would Slade do then? This is happening. Dick is actively raping someone - raping _Jason_.

“That’s enough,” Deathstroke says, suddenly, and Dick pulls himself free of Jason so quickly that the kid gasps. 

A wet string of saliva bridges the gap between them for a long second, a thin glistening line from the wet, red tip of Dick’s cock to Jason’s lips, already swollen and bruised. It snaps when Jason presses his mouth closed. Dick has to look away, then, his chest aching like a wound.

“Here,” Slade says. Then he fists a hand in Jason’s hair and yanks him up. Jason gasps again, arms flexing where they’re tied behind his back, and Dick has no idea whether it’s from the pain of being forced upright by his hair, or from the change of angle as the new position sinks him down onto Slade’s cock.

Slade shuffles some more, settling back against the chair, pulling Jason flush against his chest and spreading his own legs, forcing Jason’s wide where they hang on either side of his thighs. The new position gives Dick an unimpeded view of where Slade’s cock is disappearing into the kid. It bares Jason’s own cock, too, limp between his spread legs.

Dick’s throat feels thick and sticky. When he swallows, it catches strangely under his jaw. 

Deathstroke tilts Jason’s head back over his shoulder, pressing the gun into the soft flesh beneath Jason’s chin. Then he trails one hand down the length of Jason’s chest, over his belly. He pauses to grope Jason’s limp cock - eliciting an unhappy twitch from the kid - before trailing lower.

“Slade-“ Dick tries.

Slade cuts him off by hooking one thick finger into Jason, forcing it in alongside the enormous intrusion of his cock. Jason makes an awful choking sound, his throat bobbing beneath the press of the gun, and jerks his hips in Slade’s lap, trying to escape.

“Come on,” Deathstroke growls. “Get over here and fuck him Grayson.”

“No,” Jason shouts, startling Dick. “No, don’t. Dick, _please_.”

Dick is no stranger to terrible things. He’s seen things - done things - that no person should before he’d even hit puberty. He has more than enough trauma for anyone.

And, yet, none of that, none of the terrible things he’s experienced, can come close to this. To Dick, shuffling forward on his knees, hard cock hanging out of his fly, slotting himself between Slade and Jason’s spread legs. To pressing his own finger into Jason - feeling the hot clench of him around him, the impossible tightness, the smooth skin of Slade’s cock. To guiding his own hardness between Jason’s cheeks.

Briefly, Dick wonders if he’d be able to kill himself before Slade could stop him. If he reached up and yanked the gun back towards himself, maybe. Except, even if he managed it - even if Slade blew his fucking head off - that’s no guarantee that he won’t just turn around and do exactly the same to Jason.

Dick can’t see a way out of this. He can’t see a way to stop this from happening. Jason’s rim clenches around his finger, hot and throbbing and, Jesus, Dick already knows that this is going to destroy them both. It already has.

“Jason,” he murmurs. “I’m so sorry.”

Not that his apology is good for anything, considering he has a finger up Jason’s ass and his own hard cock in his other hand. Apologising won’t change the fact that Dick is doing this.

Jason just sobs in response, thin chest heaving, tears streaking over his flushed cheeks. “Please,” he gasps again, uselessly, even though not a single one of his previous pleas have meant anything.

“Get on with it,” Slade growls.

Dick spits on his palm, strokes himself jerkily as many times as he can stomach. Then he presses close, tugging as far as he dares on Jason’s rim, before forcing his cock inside.

Jason screams. His back arches, although his head stays pinned against Deathstroke’s shoulder by the pressure of the gun. The sound tears straight through Dick. His hips stutter. 

Futilely, Dick wishes he could go soft. Wishes his cock wouldn’t be so interested in the tight heat clasping around the sensitive head. Only the tip is even in and already it feels so tight around him that it’s almost painful. He can’t imagine the agony Jason must be in.

The thought feels as cold and bottomless as the ocean.

Still, Dick rolls his hips, working his cock into Jason as gently as possible. It’s agonisingly slow and, still, Jason makes punched out little noises with every inch, whining and gasping. His body is warm and slick around Dick. It’s blood that’s easing Dick’s way. He has no idea whether it’s his own cock that’s torn Jason open or whether it’s from Slade’s brutal treatment. Maybe both. The friction of Dick’s cock forcing it’s way over the tears must be agony.

Eventually, Deathstroke loses patience. With his grip on Jason’s hip, he drags the kid forcefully onto both of their cocks. Jason screams again. His whole body clenches and Dick can’t help the groan that escapes him.

It’s sick. It’s wrong. It...it feels good in a way that Dick doesn’t want to acknowledge, being sheathed deep in Jason’s body, Slade’s throbbing cock pressed right up against him. The pleasure blooms nauseatingly in his gut, curdling when it mixes with the horror that sits like a stone in his stomach.

“No,” Jason wails, as Slade drags his cock out and thrusts brutally back in. “I can’t - I _can’t_ -“

Bile surges up Dick’s throat. His whole body is trembling so hard it feels like he might slide right out of his skin. If only, Dick thinks, a little hysterically. God, what Dick would do not to be in his body right now.

“Shut up,” Deathstroke growls. “I’m tired of your whining.”

He shifts his grip to Jason’s chin, pressing his mouth open with bruising fingers. Then he slides the gun over Jason’s swollen lips before forcing it into his throat.

Jason makes a horrible gurgling sound as he’s forced to accommodate the thick barrel of the gun, clenching around them again as his body tenses. Dick’s own body is rigid with fear and disgust. Slade is still thrusting into Jason, rubbing up against Dick’s cock with every movement, but Dick can’t bring himself to move. All he can do is stare at the way the gun - already streaked with blood from where Slade had forced it into Jason earlier - slides past Jason’s lips.

“Grayson,” Slade snaps, as he forces the gun deep enough that the trigger guard turns Jason’s bottom lip white, “don’t make me have to walk you through this.”

Dick shudders. He can do this. He has to.

His thrusts start out tentative, hitching with every soft, broken noise Jason makes. They’re too hesitant and uneven to get Dick off, but the pleasure simmers low in his gut, regardless, spurred on by the slick heat of Jason each time Dick carves into him. It’s sick and wrong and disgusting, but eventually Dick finds a steadier rhythm, matching his own thrusts to Slade’s.

“I’m sorry,” Dick chokes as Jason sobs around the gun in his mouth. “I’m so sorry.”

It’s brutal. Each combined thrust moves Jason bodily in their laps. Dick’s thighs are slick with blood and sweat. Jason’s cheeks are soaked with tears, the blindfold so damp that it all looks one solid, darker colour. There’s drool sliding down his chin, too. He must be in so much pain.

And, yet, Dick can feel the kid’s cock stirring against his stomach. As full as he is, Dick is sure at least one of them must be hitting Jason’s prostate. He has no illusions about whether Jason is enjoying this or not, though. The fact that he’s reacting to this only makes Dick feel worse. He knows, now, exactly how it feels to have pleasure forced upon you, after all.

Jason groans at a particularly rough thrust and Deathstroke laughs, low and slightly strained.

“Touch him,” he tells Dick and Dick does.

Jason’s hips jerk the moment Dick’s fingers brush against him. When Dick firms his grip, stroking over the rapidly hardening flesh, Jason cries out. It’s not a good sound. Dick’s sure he’ll remember it whenever he next has a cock in his hand - if he ever does again. He ignores it as best he can. Shuts his eyes and strokes and thrusts and wishes this could be over. Wishes this never happened in the first place.

The crest of his orgasm crashes over him utterly without warning. It’s sharp and sudden and so intense it doesn’t even feel like pleasure. Dick’s hips jerk, forcing himself deep into Jason in ragged thrusts as his cock twitches and spurts and Dick curls over, gasping, like he’s been punched in the gut. His hand spasms around Jason. 

He came. He came from _raping_ Jason.

Beneath him, the kid makes a ragged, wounded sound. Dick trembles over him, working at the flesh in his hand until Jason’s whole body tightens like a bow string - almost painful around Dick’s softening cock - and he empties his balls all over both of their stomachs.

Only then does Dick allow himself to pull out, starting to scramble away before Slade grips the back of his neck and holds him still. Deathstroke grunts, pulls the gun out of Jason’s mouth, then pushes them both back to the floor, Jason sprawled across Dick’s chest, both of them crushed beneath his weight. Jason sobs, awful, painful gasps and whines as Slade ruts into him with abandon.

“Remember,” Slade grunts, the tightness of his voice telling Dick he’s probably close to the edge himself, “you brought this on-“

There’s a roar of flame - hot and close enough that Dick can feel the sting of it against his face - then Deathstroke’s weight is gone. Dick reacts immediately, pulling Jason with him as he rolls away from the sudden attack, crouching over him and bracing one arm around his head.

Slade is already on his feet, his gun pointing at the new intruder.

Kori. It’s Kori, staring at the scene before her with wide, horrified eyes, her hands outstretched. Relief crashes almost painfully through Dick’s whole body, even though she’s too late to stop the worst of what’s happened. She’s here. If anyone can fix this, Kori can.

“You -“ her throat works. Dick isn’t sure if he’s ever seen her lost for words before. “What the fuck is this?”

“Kori,” Dick manages. Her eyes flicker to him, wet and wide and he knows what she must be seeing. Dick’s cock is still hanging out of his pants. Jason is half-naked underneath him. He doesn’t want to even think about the fluids that must be smeared across them both.

“What is this?” she asks again and Dick honestly has no idea how to answer her.

Slade saves him from having to answer by shooting his gun straight at Kori’s chest.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! :)


End file.
